


And The Water Returns

by thisiswhatthewatergaveme



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Feelings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Merthur Party 2013, Reincarnation, Reunions, The Golden Age, The Power Of Love, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/pseuds/thisiswhatthewatergaveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Merlin ten minutes to leave the cheap little motel. In that ten minutes, he's got a plane ticket, his bags packed, and a worried little old man in Wales turning down the sheets on his annual bed. </p><p>Where lights are there that shouldn't be, the signs are apparent, and nothing is okay, until everything is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Water Returns

When Merlin gets the call, he's in California.

 

"Sir," says the man on the other end of the line. His voice is shaking. "I've, ah, I'm just calling, as it's-- or, rather, you haven't been, um--"

Merlin sighs. "Is there a problem?"

"N-no, Mr. Smith, no problem. Only just, er, wondering if you'll be needing your room this year, as space is getting thin. We're very busy this year, you understand. That is, er."

"Busier than usual?" Merlin leans back against his headboard. He's got a wonderful view of the beach. He can't see the water, only a mass of craggy rock and endless, endless sand on the highway.

"Oh, yes. The lights."

"Great," Merlin says, and then he realizes what the man has said. "Wait, lights?"

"It's all over the news, Mr. Smith." And now the old B&B proprietor sounds a little judgmental. Merlin purses his lips.

"Pretend I haven't got a TV."

"Right. Yes. Sorry, it's just-- well, it's all over, isn't it? The lights, coming from the lake. It's a little aurora. Right here, can you imagine? Our very own southern lights!"

It takes Merlin ten minutes to leave the cheap little motel. In that ten minutes, he's got a plane ticket, his bags packed, and a worried little old man in Wales turning down the sheets on his annual bed.

**

 It figures Arthur would make a spectacle of himself.

It _figures._

**

"Are you alright?" a flight attendant asks, passing over a little towel. Merlin laughs. He hadn't noticed the damp across his cheeks. It feels like he's waking up.

 

"I feel fine," he says, and fights the urge to say _good morning_. He's saving that for someone else.

 

**

The little bed and breakfast is called _Camlann_. Merlin was there when it was built. He's never told the proprietors, who were themselves young and sprightly at its opening. They're good people; they don't ask questions, don't ask why every year for forty years Merlin has returned, like clockwork, to ask for his little room key and spend three days sitting by the window, staring out at the place where an island used to be, waiting for a boat that never came.

 

He usually tries, really. He casts his spell, makes himself the appropriate age, keep to himself. He hadn't slipped up until war broke out.

He'd come running, forgotten his spell until it was too late, until he was slamming through the door, asking about anything unusual, anything strange, anyone tall and blond and spouting out garbage about royalty.

Mr. Evans peered at him, and then patted himself for his glasses, before realizing that they were, in fact, perched pertly at the top of his nose, and fainted dead away.

Mrs. Evans said, "Oh," handed Merlin her cup of tea, turned away to fetch his key, switched it out for her cup, and pointed to the stairs.

(She always has reminded him of his mum, a bit. Even then, he couldn't help but smile sheepishly, nod his thanks, and carry on away. She'd been very good about keeping her hands from shaking.)

 

This time, Merlin doesn't bother casting his spell-- hadn't, for a handful of years, now-- and he's glad for it. It's easier for him to force his way through the crowd without arthritis pinching at his joints. And there is a crowd, a mass of people pointing towards the sky, cameras pointed, because it's a wash of colors, and Merlin _sees_.

There are lights playing out over the sunset. There is gold, and scarlett, a blue smear like the oily underside of a dragon's wing, purple like a queen's dress, silver like an old suit of armor. It's a history, _his_ history, written in the sky, for anyone to see and no one to decode but him. 

But--

He goes up to Camlann and through its doors, walking towards the cluttered little desk that he sees Mrs. Evans behind. She smiles at him.

"This what you've been waiting for, then?" she asks. 

"I certainly hope so." He says it, but he doesn't mean it. He knows, he _knows_ that this is for him. That he needs to be here.

She passes him his key and he takes the steps three at a time, until he's at his little room with his face pressed to the window.

 

He waits there, like that, until the sun sets completely. The colors continue, the little aurora from nowhere-- now, a darker gold, the eyes of a kind, wronged knight; the white of an old man's hair; a shining brown like a proud, wild head of hair. It's everyone he's ever known, everyone he's ever loved, every event that's really mattered. The blue of a fairy, the black of a beast-girl, the green of a sorceress's cold, pained eyes. The iridescence of a unicorn. The orange of magicked fire.

 

The grass green of an island. Of forever.

**

Nothing happens. Merlin falls asleep with his face pressed against the cool glass, and wakes up stuck to it and bewildered.

Still, he watches, until the afternoon.

The anniversary comes, and passes.

The lights continue to dance, only now, the gold is spreading, higher and wider. Merlin opens his window and stretches out his hand, but stops, his fingers just shy of the opening.

He doesn't know what to do.

 He waits.

 

**

 

The gold spreads, shot through with a streak of blue.

 Sometimes, it reminds him of a dead king's eyes. Sometimes, it reminds him of his own.

It doesn't really matter.

**

When the sun rises again, he doesn't move, but waits, desperate and impatient, his fingers curled over the window-frame, his body a coil of discontent.

**

He notices when the lights stop.

**

It went entirely gold, for a moment. Gold and pulsing and reaching, and he couldn't reach back. He couldn't. He didn't know how.

So he yells. Screams, really. Right at the sky that promised, and disappointed. Screams and screams and screams.

The tourists don't look up at him, because they've gone. Everyone's gone.

 

A cold has set in.

 

**

 

The knock comes the next day at a quarter past one. 

"Is there something wrong," Merlin says, and he doesn't even bother phrasing it as a question. Doesn't even try.

"Do you mind if I--"

"Sure."

 

Mrs. Evans peers in just enough to catch sight of him, and the look on her face breaks him, a little. He doesn't need sympathy. it was his own foolishness, thinking the wait was over. His own idiocy. "Oh, love."

"What is it?" he asks roughly, throwing an arm over his eyes. He knows they're red, knows he's rubbed them raw. (Still, he can't stand to worry her. She's too kind. She doesn't deserve it.)

"I'm-- oh, dear, I'm so sorry. I know you were waiting for something. Do you need the room for longer."

Ah. "No, I-- I can be gone today. I'll just..." He doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to open his eyes. Doesn't want to see a world still so empty.

"It's just-- there's a young man who seems rather desperate for a room. I'll send him up the way a little. God knows Rhys could use the business."

"No." He moves his arm enough to smile at her. It feels like digging knives into his cheekbones, but he tries. "I'll be gone in half an hour. Tell him not to worry."

 

She makes a face at that. "Merlin, I'm not going to rush you. You really look like--"

 

"Just need a little sleep, is all," he says, and the cheer he sends through his voice might be overdoing it a little bit, but it makes her smile. "I can get plenty on the plane. And I've only got--" He glances at his wrist. He's got three hours before his flight. "Oh, look at that. I've got to be out of here in ten minutes."

 

Mrs. Evans opens her mouth like she means to argue, but stops halfway to it, and looks at him instead, assessing and shrewd. After a moment, she nods. "There'll be tea downstairs for you. And sandwiches."

 

"You're spoiling me," he tells her, because when she smiles widely enough, there's always a hint of dimples.

 

He gets to see them. "Who else do I have to do that to, hm?"

 

**

 

He packs in five minutes, throws on his clothes, and combs his hair back with his fingers. He doesn't look out the window.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, with his back to it, and his hand on the doorknob. "I don't know how to do this anymore. I can't."

 

He goes downstairs.

 

There's no bright light. There's no sign. There's no one he can call for assurance. Even the sidhe have moved on. He’s alone.

 

He laughs to himself in the middle of the stairwell, but he doesn’t do it very well. His shoulders start to shake; his eyes spill over.

 

“Stop that,” he mutters to himself, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Stop it. You expected too much. You— _fuck_.”

He takes a breath and pulls himself in. He’s fine. He’ll survive. He has to, doesn’t he? Has to see how this ends.

He skips his way down the last of the stairs and collides right into the man asking for the room, side checking him hard enough that the other man’s bag falls to the ground.

 

“Oh, god—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

 

 

“Watch where you’re running, then,” the man snaps, but his eyes are wide and harried like he isn’t really paying attention, like Merlin is the least of his worries. “God, if I knew I was going to be assaulted, I would have—what? Why are you staring at me like that?”

 

“I—” Merlin doesn’t—he’s not _staring_. He just can’t feel his face.

The man’s eyes narrow, a little, and his brow goes with them, until he’s squinting at Merlin, half irritation, half concern. “Are you alright? Listen, you bumping into me, it wasn’t that big a deal. Just slow down a little, hey?”

“Are—you—” Merlin can’t breathe. The air feels like gold dust, too thick and too sharp for his body to accept it.

           

“Ah, Merlin. You’ve met our new guest.” Mrs. Evans comes bustling in, her tea tray held high, two cups on it, one plate of biscuits. “You’ll give him the key. I’ll be right back—you know, he came for the lights, too. Maybe tell the poor dear what he’s missed out on.”

She claps the man on the shoulder and smiles at him, and then at Merlin, warm and oblivious to Merlin’s distress ( _exactly,_ his minds supplies, like his mother) and bustles her way back out.

 

Merlin’s knees buckle.

 

The man sweeps in to catch him, sliding an arm around Merlin’s chest, and standing easier under his weight.

“Of _course_ it’s easier,” he mutters. “I’m not wearing a heavy _sodding_ metal suit, am I?”

“Did you hit your head?” the man gasps, pushing Merlin’s hair aside, feeling for bumps. His hand stills when he gets a closer look at Merlin’s eyes. “Are you on drugs?”

Merlin closes his eyes. The other man is too close. All he can see is the blue of his eyes. “Why are you here? The lights were—why are you here?”

 

“I—” He frowns. “I had to be. I—this’ll sound mad.”

“Doubt it,” Merlin whispers.

“I had to be. I saw them, on the TV, and I held out, because I had— _have_ , really—far too much to do to take a train to _Wales_ but I—well.”

 

“You kept me waiting,” Merlin says faintly, and he knows that Arthur can hear him, even though he can’t quite hear himself with how hard the blood is rushing in his ears. “You _kept me waiting_. You were here, you’ve _been_ here, and I didn’t _know_.”

 

The man steps away from him, then, leaving Merlin to stumble for  his footing. Steps away to get a better look at him.

Merlin tries to hold himself up straighter, stronger, tries to look a little like—well. Like himself.

He promptly gives it up as a bad job and just stands, his hands held helplessly at his sides, the tea behind them getting cold.

 

“Arthur,” he says.

 

“Oh my god,” says the man who is, was, will be, _is_ Arthur, and then Merlin is wrapping his arms around him, nearly _throttling_ him in the desperate race for it, and his eyes are leaking, tears spilling down his face, but _god_ , he’s doing better with the laughing part of it, and he can’t stop smiling.

“ _Arthur_ ,” he says again, and he can feel almost-Arthur’s hands against his back, hesitant, confused and fumbling. “Arthur.”

 

“How do you—I—Merlin, she said. You’re—I don’t know what’s happening,” Arthur admits, but he’s hugging Merlin back, tucking his face against his neck, and something inside Merlin is melting, coming unstuck. He can feel his eyes glowing.

 

“I think I can help you with that,” he says, stumbling away.

Arthur releases him reluctantly, but stands up stick-straight when he sees Merlin’s face. “What—”

 

“Give me your hand,” Merlin says, and he can _feel_ it, now. The magic inside of him is coursing, wild and full in a way it hasn’t been in so _long_. He feels more than complete, more than whole. He feels new and shining.

 

Arthur hesitates. Merlin says, “Trust me. You know you can.”

 

Arthur does.

 

**

 

Every light in the pretty little B&B bursts, and Mrs. Evans swears something mighty from the kitchen. Merlin wonders if his sandwiches are finished, and then feels astonishingly guilty for it.

 

**

 

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur says, blinking at him. “What the hell—” He looks down at himself, all around him, back at Merlin, bewildered and confused and lost and Merlin could _kiss_ him. He could _kill_ him. He made him _wait_ , even longer than he had to.

He’s _here_.

“We’re in Wales,” Arthur says indignantly. “I work in Kensington. I am _not_ —I was a king.” That, he says with no little wonder, and Merlin’s smiling so wide he thinks his cheeks might burst.

“You are. Er, sire. Once and future.” He tips an imaginary hat before he realizes that Arthur’s missed that part. And then he remembers that he knows at least a little bit, because he’s… well. Been around.

“Merlin—” He stumbles back into Merlin’s arms, and says, against his ear. “You found me,” and there’s more than enough wonder in that to have Merlin struggling for air all over again.

 

Mrs. Evans comes back in with a plate full of sandwiches, blinking at the scene they must make, glass in their tea and their arms around each other.

 

She doesn’t so much as sigh—only smiles and sets the plate down. “I’ve missed something, then, have I? Don’t bother,” she says, waving him away when Merlin starts to turn towards her. “I’m glad you’ve found what you’re looking for.”

She glances between the two of them, her eyes shining. Merlin must look like a fool, to be beaming the way he is, but if he does, so be it. _He’s found him_.

 

They’ve found each other.

 

“I suppose it’ll be the two of you in that room, then,” she says indulgently, before walking away with the ruined tea.

 

Merlin stiffens slightly, feels his ears go red, but Arthur’s laughing around him, and motions shake him loose again, until he’s nearly collapsed against Arthur, limp against him. He’s so _tired_.

 

“I could sleep for a thousand years,” he declares, leaning back just enough to drink him in. His eyes are a little brighter—no pressures of a kingdom to run, then—and his hair a little lighter. His smile’s the same. Merlin aches with it.

“I think I’ve done enough sleeping for the both of us,” Arthur tells him, leaning towards him until their foreheads touch. “Thanks for waking me up,” he says softly.

Merlin wonders if a heart could burst of happiness. His might. His _has_ ; it’s in tatters, flying high in the middle of his chest, the only banner he has left.

“Come upstairs,” he says, grabbing onto Arthur’s hands again. “You’ve got a whole life to tell me about.”

 

“And then what?” Arthur asks, laughing when Merlin starts up the stair backwards, dragging him along.

“And then the future,” Merlin says with a grin. “I’ve just got you back. I’m hardly letting you go.”

 

“Alright,” Arthur says, his eyes still a little too wide, smile a little too awed. He darts back to grab the plate of sandwiches and grabs Merlin’s hand with his free one, making a show of balancing the two, careful not to let Merlin go. Merlin snorts. Figures he’d make a spectacle of himself.

 

“To the future,” Arthur says, toasting him with a plateful of bread and meats.

 

“Together,” Merlin says, and smiles, and doesn’t stop.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to say that I like the idea of Merlin's magic working better with Arthur around, because of the strength of their connection, and also of Merlin spending a thousand years as an international man of mystery, give or take a couple mysteries. Maybe he doesn't age, but moves when he starts attracting suspicious, learns a hundred different languages and relearns them in three hundred years when they've changed so much. Maybe he doesn't use his magic any more than is strictly necessary, less and less when magic starts to leave the world, when the dragons are dead and the fairies have retreated and the time for magic to flourish is past. 
> 
> And then Arthur is back, and he has so many stories, and they spend a week just relearning each other, and it's perfect because they're together again, and they don't know what's coming, only that it's their duty to face it, and their destiny to each stand at the other's side. The Once and Future King and the greatest sorcerer in the world, standing together, come what may. 
> 
> That's what their future looks like.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If wondering, I can be found [here](http://mediocrewhiteboy.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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